


After Words

by justsomebucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookshop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Bookstores, F/M, Fluff, Mild Language, Self-help, mention of PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justsomebucky/pseuds/justsomebucky
Summary: Bookshop AU. Reader finds a book with some handwritten notes inside and sets out to find the person responsible.





	After Words

Your first Friday night in Queens wasn’t very exciting.

Maybe that’s just how adulthood was. Maybe adulthood was rushing around and paying bills and feeling generally tired all the time.

“I know,” you repeated, switching your phone to the other ear as you wandered into the living room of your new apartment. A few floorboards creaked under your feet as you stepped gingerly around some discarded bubble wrap. “My door is locked, Jane. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Jane insisted, using her motherly tone. “You sound overwhelmed. Maybe I should come visit.”

Well, okay, you could admit that Queens wasn’t exactly as glamorous as Manhattan or as popular as Brooklyn, but you still loved it.

Your new apartment was very, _very_ small, but it was really all you could afford right now. Your editing internship at _The Village Voice_ didn’t pay very well, but without experience, you knew you’d be worse off. Besides, you had some freelance work on the side that helped pay for groceries and some of your student loans.

Not everyone you knew was quite so willing to settle. Your best friend in the whole wide world, Jane Foster, was a super genius headed to Switzerland to do her own freelance gig for the European Organization for Nuclear Research. She wouldn’t be back until after Christmas.

The two of you grew up together and this was your first time being separated for any length of time, but maybe this was the step you both needed. You were so very different.

Naturally, she was more concerned with you and your safety than her own, even though she was going to CERN to smash up some sub-atomic particles (which seemed pre-tty dangerous to you).

“ _Visit me_? Are you kidding?” You shook your head, even though no one was there to see your astonishment. “You don’t have time with your big trip is coming up. You need to prepare for that all your science-y stuff.”

“I’m not going to have any fun changing my field forever while knowing my best friend is alone and scared in a new place,” she replied flatly.

You rolled your eyes. “I am _not_ alone and scared.”

“Fine, who’s with you right now?”

Jane just didn’t get it.

Your eyes darted around the room, which was dimly lit by the Ikea lamp you’d purchased before moving. There was a small couch and end table, a TV mounted to the wall, and a _lot_ of unopened boxes. It was going to take some work, but it would feel like home soon…hopefully.

You moved forward and flopped down on the couch, kicking your feet up onto the arm rest.

“I’m surrounded by millions of New Yorkers, and my neighbors are super loud, too. There’s no way to feel alone here, Jane.”

She scoffed. “Y/N…”

“Jaaaane,” you mimicked, closing your eyes. “I have work to do. It might be a freelance piece, but there are still deadlines. It’s due in two weeks and I haven’t even begun to research.”

“What’s it about?”

“The stigma surrounding mental health care and problems.”

“Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

Your eyes popped open and you stared straight ahead, noting that the ceiling could really use a paint job. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re going to be up against those morons who call people snowflakes for getting help. Not that they should take a minute of your time, but…”

“But they’re going to comment, as all internet trolls do,” you finished lamely. You could practically see the comment section now. “I did think about that, Jane, but I’m writing this piece anyway. I’m anxiety’s posterchild and I wish people talked about mental health more openly.”

“Me too. Hey, I have to get going, Y/N, but send me a draft, okay?”

There was no way she’d have time to read it, but you appreciated the sentiment. Best friends were considerate like that.

“Will do. Love you.”

“I love you, too. We’ll Facetime soon, yeah?”

“Yep. Bye, Jane.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

You pressed end on the call, then set your phone on the cushion beside you with a deep sigh. Things had to change, that was something impossible to avoid, but did they have to change so abruptly? You’d barely graduated from college before accepting this internship.

Was it the right move for a successful future? Absolutely.

But that didn’t get rid of the tightness in your chest or the tears that appeared in your eyes every time you thought about home. Sometimes it hurt so much, and all you wanted to do was pack up and head back the way you came.

You turned your head and eyed the unopened boxes all around you. Maybe unpacking some more of your things would help.

At the very least, it might provide a temporary distraction.

* * *

Saturday brought a new adventure for you: the New York transit system.

Taking the subway made you feel like a real city girl, or maybe an explorer in new territories searching for something yet unknown. More precisely, you were wandering aimlessly, trying to get a feel for the system as you ended up in new corners of the city.

When you accidentally ended up at Coney Island, you decided to stop and start walking for a while. The amusement park looked fun, but you weren’t much for going on the beach in chilly weather, nor did you want to go see all the people having fun with their friends, since you hadn’t acquired any new ones yet.

It’s not that the people at work weren’t nice, they just…didn’t feel familiar like the people back home. You weren’t on their sociability level yet. And yes, you knew it was silly to cling to feelings of home in a new city when you were trying to make a fresh start, but you just couldn’t help it, not yet at least.

Each block in Brooklyn looked the same for a while. There were houses on every street that had big concrete steps out front, blocked in by wrought iron fencing. Trees lined the sidewalks, though they didn’t cast much of a shadow since it was so cloudy out.

Eventually, you reached a new street that was lined with shops and bustling with people. Each place had a different eye-catching storefront, some artsy looking with huge window displays, while others had fairy lights or bright awnings. They were most likely trying to stand out from the Starbucks and other well-known franchises moving in on their territory.

It was just as you were passing a bookshop that the clouds opened up and the rain began to pour.

With no umbrella and no desire to become soaked to the bone, you ducked into the shop as quickly as possible, cringing when the little bell on the door smacked against the wall with more force than you intended.

There was a man behind the register, and even though you came crashing in and disturbed his peace, he still offered you a smile.

“It’s really coming down out there now, isn’t it?” he asked, casually turning to look out the plate glass window. You noticed a small sign hanging next to the counter: _new and used book donations accepted_.

“Yeah, sorry about barging in,” you apologized, shaking off a little excess rainwater. “It started kind of quickly.”

“Oh, it’s fine. You can duck in here as long as you need to.” The man turned back to you, his brown eyes warm.  

There was something more to him, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. It was almost like he had an old soul, and the weight of the world was making him stay in his cozy little bookshop.

Maybe everything outside the door was too much, but in this shop he could be himself.

You looked away, not wanting to creep him out by staring. “Thanks.”

The shop itself was small and cute, with rows and rows of shelves. Beautiful ivy was hand-painted on the shelves, continuing along parts of the wall and around the front doorway. Fairy lights cast a soft glow around the ivy, giving the room an otherworldly feel, as if there was a bookshop in the middle of an enchanted forest somewhere.

Was it possible to be smitten with a store? Was love at first sight possible given how freaking magical this place seemed?

You moved closer to one of the shelves, gently running your fingers over the spines of each book and glancing at the titles. Some of them looked new, but some were worn, with little tears around the edges of the covers. Some had lines where the spine had been bent back dozens of times. It was easy to see that some of these books had once meant a lot to their former owners.

“Let me know if you need any help,” the shopkeeper called from the counter.

“Thank you!”

You browsed for a bit, grabbing a travel guide on Prague, a book about the women of World War II, and a romance novel just for the sake of mindless entertainment (because who really believes in those scenarios, anyways?), before you came across the modest self-help section.

To your amazement, nearly every book was worn in some way. You carefully set your other books down on the floor before moving closer.

“’ _Anxiety and You: A Guide to Coping_ ,’” you murmured, pulling the book out a little to examine the cover.

That one would be right up your alley if it offered any insight.

There were some nights, especially since moving to Queens, where you felt like you were about to crawl out of your skin, though you weren’t always sure why. Sunday nights were especially bad. It was like having that feeling of dread that you used to get before a new school year, only it happened weekly.

You shrugged a shoulder and carefully added the book to your pile.

After deciding that four books would suffice for now, you shuffled to the front of the store and set your selections down on the counter.

“Ah, found some things I see,” the owner commented. He rolled up the sleeves of his green button down and set to bagging your books. When he noticed the anxiety book, he picked it up, as if inspecting it. “Tell you what, you can have this one. It’s pretty worn.”

“That’s all right, I’m okay with paying for it,” you countered, shaking your head.  How could he possibly continue to operate a business if he gave all his merchandise away?

“I insist. It’s a recent donation, and I almost didn’t even put it on the shelf.” He nodded at you. “Besides, if it can help you, it’s worth it.”

You couldn’t really argue with that sort of kindness.

“I’m Bruce, by the way.” He offered you his hand, and you shook it gently.

“I’m Y/N.”

Bruce nodded again, giving you a knowing look. “You’re new to the city, aren’t you?”

Was it that obvious? Heat rose in your cheeks as you wondered just how out-of-place you seemed. “I just moved to Queens.”

“I can always tell,” he said, taking the money from your hand to get your change. “Newbies always have that wide-eyed look of wonder.”

Did you? Probably, you decided, especially after finding this shop by accident.

After handing your newly purchased bag of books over, Bruce gave you another smile. “Come back soon.”

“I’m sure I will. I’m a fast reader,” you chuckled, adjusting the bag in your grip as you turned to look outside.

The sun was shining again.

* * *

It took you a few days to get through three of the books (though the Prague book was mostly filled with pictures). You saved the anxiety book for Sunday night, figuring that you would need it most then.

It was unseasonably warm in New York for October, so you had a big fan sitting in the window as you sprawled out on your bed, book in hand. Soft light spilled from the lamp on the table beside you, and once you found a comfortable position, you opened up the book.

“Anxiety and me is right,” you muttered, flipping past the dedication page and stopping on chapter one.

There wasn’t much to set this book apart from anything you’d read about anxiety on the internet. It was full of basic knowledge, like counting to ten, taking deep breaths, finding a hobby, talking it out, etcetera…

But somewhere around chapter four, you started noticing that certain phrases or words were underlined. Some of the pages were dog-eared, and some of the margins had sloppy hand-written notes like ‘ _I remember this’_ or ‘ _picture the ocean.’_

You kept reading, because suddenly you felt like someone was in this fight with you, as if they were trying to reassure you through all these scribbles and messages that you were going to be okay.

The sections that were highlighted all seemed to have to do with feeling alone. There was no name listed in the book, so the odds of you ever finding out its previous owner seemed pretty low.

You wished you could tell this person, ‘ _you aren’t alone…I’m here. We’re in this together.’_

* * *

“Back for more?” Bruce asked cheerfully, after saying goodbye to another customer whose face was hidden by a Yankees hat. The person brushed passed you and reached for the door, muttering an apology after his elbow bumped you.

You didn’t spare a glance backwards to the man as you walked further into the shop. “I told you I would be back! And I brought three of those books back as a donation, so you can resell them.”

He took the bag from you, offering a nod of thanks. “Three? I thought you had four originally?”

“I kept one,” you confessed, picturing the anxiety book on your nightstand. It had been weeks since you first cracked it open, and it had become a comfort to you every Sunday, so you decided to hang on to it. “You were right, it helped a little.”

Besides, not that you had much hope, but you still kind of wanted to find the former owner.

“There are plenty more where that came from. In fact, there were a couple more self-help books donated today, if that’s your thing,” he informed you, laying his palm flat on a stack of books on the counter. The top book was about stress and anxiety. “I didn’t even have a chance to put them out yet.”

He laughed when you practically dove for them, reaching for the top book and flipping through the pages until you found what you were looking for.

There were more notes, more underlines, and more dog-eared pages. Whoever brought this stack of books was your mystery person, the one with whom you shared this terrible affliction.

Your eyes flickered up to Bruce’s, the book still firm in your grip. “Who dropped these off?”

Bruce shook his head. “I don’t know that it’s particularly illegal to reveal my source, but I don’t want to betray his or her trust.”

You frowned, looking back down at the book. “How many more would you say this person has donated?”

He rubbed a hand down his face, eyes glancing behind you at the shelves. “Oh, gosh…I don’t know…probably at least twenty-five. At least.”

“This poor person,” you murmured, setting the book down and reaching for the next. “Bruce, these books all have writing in them.” You showed him yet another page of underlined sentences with notes in the margin.

“I’m sorry. I can offer a discount for the damage if you want, but-“

“No, no,” you interrupted, gesturing with the open book as if that would help prove your point. “I mean, it’s not that, that’s fine with me, it’s just…don’t you think it’s a cry for help? This person is suffering and trying to sort through things and it seems like they’re doing it alone.”

“That’s their business though, Y/N. There are professionals for that sort of thing. I just sell books.” His tone held an apology, but you weren’t sure if it was toward you or the mystery person.

You felt deflated, all hope of ever finding this person gone in an instant. Without Bruce’s help, and without stooping to stalking (which you were vehemently against), you gave up for the time being.

That evening, you left the store with four more books, each of them from the stack that had been donated earlier that day, and each filled with handwritten notes.

You kept them all.

* * *

“Y/N, you’re always hyper focusing on things. I think you should start focusing on yourself instead of trying to help every person with problems that you meet!”

Jane was using her mom voice on you again, this time over your book conundrum. You had been updating her via text about your adventures, including your finds at the bookstore, but now she seemed to be over it.

“Jane, this person might really need help! My big stigma article covered all of this, which you would know if you’d read it.”

“Don’t you have new articles to research and write?”

“I finished my most recent piece,” you informed her hotly, shifting so you were sitting cross-legged on the couch. “All I had to do was point out a few recent play openings for _The Village Voice_. Easy fluff stuff.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if she was thinking too many thoughts at once and needed to collect them properly.

“Jane? You still there?”

“Why don’t you write back,” she said finally. “Write back to the person, if you insist on meddling as usual.”

You chose to ignore her comment, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Write back _how_? I doubt everyone reads _The Village Voice_ , Jane. Unless I write something and it goes viral, but that’s such a fluke, completely unpredictable. I can’t really-“

“Write back in one of those _books,_ ” she interrupted. “As in, buy a self-help book, write in it, and donate it to see what happens.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose for a second as you mulled the suggestion over. “Someone else might pick it up and mess up the whole thing.”

“So tell the shop owner to make sure it gets to the mystery person. You said he was a nice guy. He seemed like he’d be willing to do at least that, right?”

“I don’t know,” you mused. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

“Exactly. Do that and let me know how it goes, okay? I have to get going, it’s super late here and I have a big meeting to attend in oh…six hours.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Jane. Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime, Y/N.”

You knew you wouldn’t need to venture far to find a good book to donate; you had plenty of books on your shelf that were used but might be new to the self-help reader at Bruce’s bookshop.

After carefully selecting one about self-love and confidence, you grabbed a pen and started underlining the passages that helped you most, stopping on occasion to write a little note in the margin.

There wasn’t much room for anything mind-blowing. You mostly kept it to little comments like ‘ _these feelings are temporary’_ and ‘ _you’re worth it!’_ Sure, most of the reassurances you wrote were a little cheesy, but you benefited from his comments, so maybe he needed a little cheesy in his life.

Maybe everyone needed cheesy encouragements.

Satisfied with your work, you decided to take the book that Friday, right after work.

* * *

“I think you spend more time in Brooklyn than where you live in Queens,” Bruce joked, eyeing the book you just handed him.

“I’d say it’s pretty even actually,” you replied, nodding at the book. “So, can you get that to the mystery customer?”

He eyed the book, then looked back up at you. “I can suggest it, but I’m not going to force it on anyone.”

“Good enough. Thanks, Bruce.” You gave him a firm nod. “I think it could help the person out a little.”

His eyes softened. “That’s nice of you though, Y/N, to want to help. Most people would just be angry about the writing in their book.”

The truth was, there was a little bit of selfishness in your actions.

You loved helping others, sure, but by doing so it made you feel like you were making a difference, like your anxiety wasn’t holding you back as much as you previously thought. You felt like you were taking a step toward owning your issues by trying to help others through theirs.

Whether this person had anxiety or PTSD or depression or anything of the sort, all you wanted was to make sure that they got some kind of help…that they felt like someone was listening.

Doesn’t everyone want to feel like they are being heard?

You took a deep breath, averting your eyes, as if he could read your expression and know what you were thinking.

Bruce had added some fall décor around the shop, including little smiling pumpkins. They were pretty cute. Maybe you should decorate your apartment. Maybe-

“Anyways,” Bruce continued, tapping the cover of the book. “I’ll give it a try.”

You turned your attention back to him. “Thank you. That’s all I can ask for.”

“Sure, Y/N.”

* * *

You skipped your weekly bookshop visit that next weekend.

You wanted to go, really. It wasn’t like you weren’t dying to know what happened. Had the mystery customer shown up? Had Bruce offered the book as promised? Did the person accept it?

Did it _help_ them?

There was no way for you to find out without returning to the cute little bookshop with the fairy lights and ivy paintings. The shop was probably being prepped for Brooklyn’s trick-or-treat night in a week. Bruce mentioned that he was going to offer candy and one free book for every kid that stopped. It was the decent thing to do, he said, because not every kid gets books. Not every kid’s family can afford them.

You loved the idea. You wanted to go back, ask how Bruce was, and especially to ask about the book…but you couldn’t muster up the courage.

What if the person rejected it? You’d feel totally stupid, like you’d overstepped a line where you weren’t welcome or wanted.

What if the person loved the book and it really helped them? What if that led to them wanting more help? Were you really capable and prepared to give that kind of attention on an as-needed basis without formal training, and with your own issues?

God, anxiety sucked so much. Nothing was ever simple, nothing ever happened without a million strings of ‘what-ifs’ attached.

You remembered then what the mystery person had written on the last page of your most recent purchase:

_Why can’t I be normal?_

It had been underlined twice, and your heart had physically hurt to read it.

Whatever _normal_ was, that person was probably closer to it than they thought.

Loads of people hurt these days. Anxiety was just the tip of the iceberg, unfortunately. Life was full of ups and downs and you knew that how you dealt with everything, how you trained your brain to think, well, that was the key, wasn’t it?

You had to retrain your brain before moving to New York, after all. You told yourself you were capable of being on your own (and it turned out, you _were_ ), and that you were strong (which was true, even though sometimes the fears appear when you least expect it).

Ridding yourself of anxiety might be a lost cause, but not _managing_ it…you still had hope for that.

Someday soon, you knew that you would be able to manage it. You’d finally go to bed at night without having your mind race about everything that had ever and would ever and could ever happen to you. You’d close your eyes and not relive the day’s events (especially negative ones).

Someday soon was different than today, though.

As you slid back under the covers and closed your eyes to attempt to sleep your anxiety away, the last thing you felt was guilt for not checking in.

* * *

It took another week, but you managed to find the courage to return to Bruce’s bookshop. This time, you didn’t have any books to take back. You were out of the donation business for now, until you heard back from Bruce about the success or failure of your last venture.

Maybe it was an unconscious decision, or maybe not, but somehow you ended up going back on trick-or-treat night. Halloween was on a Tuesday, so all the events were happening the Saturday before.

Bruce greeted you with another one of his warm smiles, and thankfully didn’t ask about your absence. Instead, he put you to work handing out candy to little kids.

“I wish I would have worn a costume,” you lamented, eyeing his green Hulk outfit. He really got into character with it, too, and most of the little kids you’d seen so far loved him. There was one kid who got scared, but as his mother explained, he was a DC fan.

Whatever _that_ meant.

Anyways, you were spending your Saturday sat on the counter handing Milky Ways and Reese’s Cups out to the kids, while Bruce…sorry, _Hulk_ …helped them pick out a free book.

“If I had known you were going to show, I would have gotten you something,” he said, his voice muffled from his mask. “A funny hat or whatever.”

“It’s all right.“

The two of you turned as the bell rang and a figure moved into the doorway of the shop. This time, the person didn’t have a little kid with them.

“Bucky,” Bruce greeted, lifting his mask to the top of his head. “Hey, how are ya?”

“Fine,” the man answered, clearly a little bit uncomfortable. He started backing out when he realized you were sitting on the counter. “I didn’t mean to interrupt something, I can come back tomorrow, I’ll-“

“No way, man,” Bruce laughed, motioning for Bucky to come in. “We’re handing candy out to little kids, but it’s been slowing down.”

Bucky frowned for a second, seeming to consider this. “I don’t want to get in the way.”

A million alarm bells started going off in your head. You’d read that phrase at least twice in the books you’d purchased, written by none other than the mystery customer.

Could it be?

This guy _had_ to be that mystery customer.

“Come on in,” you added softly, offering a small smile while willing yourself to remain calm. “I could use the company while Bruce entertains the kids.”

Bucky turned to you fully then, and you got a great view of his piercing blue-grey eyes. He still looked unsure of himself, so you held up the candy bag.

“Come to the checkout desk, I have candy,” you joked, feeling your face heat up again. Shit, why were you so awkward?

_Deep breaths._

To your surprise, he actually cracked a smile. “That’s a little creepy, but…I guess I can stay for a little bit.”

Your whole body stiffened as he moved behind the counter. You knew the strategy well. It was far enough from you to not make things even more awkward, but close enough to not cause uncomfortable feelings of rejection or distance.

Or maybe that was just you overthinking again, as usual.

Bucky accepted the bag of Reese’s cups from you and turned toward the door expectantly.

You couldn’t help but stare at him a little. He had a handsome profile, with a strong jawline. You were always a sucker for those types.

Bruce ducked toward the back to pull more kids books out, leaving you alone in the front of the store with Bucky. If Jane had been in the room, she would have pulled you aside to tell you to start your investigation. _Questions bring answers_ , she always said.

Social interactions were freaking _exhausting_.

“So Bucky, do you come here a lot?” You cringed almost immediately; that sounded like a bad bar pickup line. “As in, do you like to read?”

Nope, that somehow made it worse.

Bucky thankfully didn’t seem to be put off by your oddball phrasing. “Yes, I visit this shop a lot. I read all the time.”

“Me too.” Time to go for the kill. “I actually ended up here by accident one day. I ducked in here because it started pouring down rain, but I keep coming back.”

“Oh?”

You could tell by the way he was averting his gaze that you were talking too much, or maybe too fast, or maybe just generally annoying him, but you couldn’t stop now. Maybe you should just be honest?

“Yeah. So anyway, I have really bad anxiety, and when I get anxious I keep talking and talking until I get a satisfactory response, so I’m sorry.” You bit your lip and looked down at the Milky Way bag, silently praying that a black hole would form in the floor so that you could jump into it.

Who does that? Who confesses all that at once? Maybe you had no clue what normal was, after all.

You heard Bucky clear his throat. “I, uh…I get anxious sometimes, too.”

Your head whipped up at the quiet confession. There was no laughter in his eyes. He wasn’t mocking you at all. He seemed to be offering some common ground.

He was trying to set _you_ at ease!

Was this the mystery customer or not?

You felt your mouth open and close a few times. “I…”

Words were failing you, a writer…a freaking writer who was paid to use the right words.

“I have some PTSD, too, since we’re being so honest.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I was in the military, and…” Bucky shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m telling this to a stranger.”

You were just about to reassure him that it was okay when a fairy princess and a kid dressed as a hot dog came into the shop. You and Bucky both gave them candy, then sent them and their guardians over to Bruce for a book.

It was time to broach the topic.

“I, uh…I don’t really get to talk about it – my anxiety, I mean. I stopped going to therapy because I was nervous to find someone new in New York. I just moved here,” you told him, glancing his direction.

He nodded thoughtfully. “I stopped going recently, too. I just…I don’t know. I found other ways to cope, I guess.”

“Oh? Like what?” You shook your head, feeling like you were prying again. “If you don’t mind telling me, that is. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay too.”

Bucky shifted to lean against the wall, his fingers messing with the plastic of the candy bag. “Well actually, I started reading. There’s a section in the corner back there with all kinds of…well I guess you’d call them self-help books, but really, they’re more like how-to guides to me.”

You watched as the little princess and hot dog shuffled out the front door, each clutching a new (at least to them) book.

“How so?”

“I write in them. I, you know, put my thoughts down. Try to reason things out.”

You nodded, but stayed silent, hoping he would continue.

Bruce chose that moment to come back to the front instead. “According to my watch, trick-or-treat time is up, guys. I think we’re done here. Thanks for your help.”

You slid off the counter dejectedly as Bucky set the candy bag down and said goodnight, slipping out the door faster than you could react.

He didn’t even bother to accomplish whatever brought him to the shop that night.

* * *

You went back the next day, unable to stop yourself after sleeping a mere three hours the night before. All you could think about was this man, Bucky, and how the light in his eyes faded the second he brought up his issues.

After he left the shop, you stayed a little bit longer to help Bruce clean up (and to swipe some of the leftover candy, let’s be real). You flat-out asked Bruce if your hunch was right, if Bucky was the mystery customer, but he refused to cave and tell you one way or the other.

That was before you noticed the book on the counter behind where you had been sitting. You knew for a fact that it hadn’t been there before.

That confirmed it. Apparently Bucky had accomplished what he’d set out to do that evening after all.

He wanted to return the book!

Even better, he _wrote notes in it_!

You grabbed it, took it back to your apartment, and poured over each and every new notation in Bucky’s handwriting. There were points and counterpoints, and in some places he’d merely written ‘ _thank you._ ’

Did he know it was you who had offered the book? Probably not, you decided. You hadn’t written your name anywhere inside, and you highly doubted that Bruce would say anything, given his current stance on privacy.

This was enough for you. At this point, even if Bucky wasn’t the mystery customer, you still wanted to see him again.

You were sure it was him, though.

You felt a connection to this man, one you had never felt with anyone else before, not even your family or friends, and while you couldn’t explain it, you had to pursue it.

So yeah, you went back the next day hoping to see Bucky.

You weren’t disappointed.

The bell on the door announced his arrival, and you quickly ducked to the corner self-help section.

Your heartbeat picked up a little as you heard Bucky’s warm voice greeting Bruce.

They chatted for a few minutes about the weather, about baseball, about whatever…you stopped listening when the ringing in your ears from your high blood pressure grew too loud.

Basically, you were just hanging out, palms sweaty, heart racing in anticipation for the second you laid eyes on Bucky again.

There was no game plan involved. You had no practiced speech, no preparedness at all.

Your anxiety was taunting you, telling you that this wouldn’t work, that he would think you were a creepy, over-bearing, nosy weirdo or something…

Meanwhile, your heart was telling your brain to shut the hell up.

When the chatter stopped, you heard light footsteps getting closer and closer. You stood rooted in place, staring at the shelf in front of you as you tried to think of something to say.

A light tap on your shoulder made you whirl around, nearly falling into Bucky as he stood beside you.

“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly, hands in the air. He quickly shoved them into his jacket pockets. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to make sure…well, you said you had anxiety, so I wanted to make sure you were okay?”

What? Was this guy even real?

You could absolutely relate to putting your own issues aside to try to make someone else feel better, but you’d never encountered someone else like that before. Not Bruce, not your family members, not even Jane put your needs first.

At least you didn’t have to break the ice. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking, though.”

Bucky nodded, eyeing you carefully. “So I take it you got my responses, then?”

_Wait…_

_Had you heard him right?_

“Your responses?” You were pretty sure you knew what he meant but you wanted to make sure, just in case.

The corner of his mouth lifted a little. “Yeah, I managed to con Bruce into giving up your identity when he gave me the book.”

_That little shit!_

“He wouldn’t tell me who wrote the notes in the first place.” You frowned in Bruce’s direction, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“To be honest, I never thought anyone would care about the notes. Or if they did, maybe the notes would help them.”

Your gaze flickered back to his. “They helped me. And yes, I’m the one who left the book for you.”

Bucky nodded, fidgeting a little. “I haven’t seen you around. I’ve been sort of, uh…checking back each day to see if you were back yet before I returned the book. That’s why you saw it yesterday.”

“You’re so sneaky,” you exclaimed. “I didn’t even see you put it on the counter!”

“I know. You looked like you were having fun handing out the candy and I didn’t want to bring you down, so I sort of crept behind you and set it down.”

“And so you let me sit there and act like I had no idea while you explained your self-help book collection to me?” You could really use that black hole in the floor again right about now.

“I didn’t _-_ what I mean to say is-” Bucky ran a hand over the stubble on his cheek for a second. “I just wasn’t sure if I was ready to talk about it directly. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud now, but it’s how I felt. I’m sorry.”

Well, you knew all about avoiding things. That’s like rule number one of how to cope with anxiety: just avoid things.

“Bucky, stop apologizing. I get it.” You couldn’t look away from him. “So now what?”

You realized as he smoothed his hair back from his face that he wasn’t wearing the Yankees cap. Without it, his brown hair seemed even longer. Really, was there anything that wasn’t attractive about this man?

“I was thinking, if you were up for it, maybe we could go get some coffee?” His lips lifted into a genuine smile. “Maybe we could discuss books, or, you know…anything…”

Your instincts had been right, which meant that your heart was smarter than your brain sometimes.

“Do you want to go now?” you blurted out.

Okay, so _maybe_ your brain would have kept that under control, but it was too late now.

His smile wavered a little as a look of uncertainty flashed across his features.

You instantly felt stupid and clingy, and all the things your anxiety makes you feel. How would this even work when you both were _so damn awkward_? You instantly wished you would have suggested a more reasonable time and date, one that wouldn’t make him feel so-

“I’d love to go now,” he replied confidently, interrupting your self-deprecating thoughts. “There’s a place just around the corner that I go to almost daily, if you didn’t have anywhere in mind.”

Your heart was racing. This could work. You could do this.

“Great. I’m glad. I think- I mean…” You cringed as you awkwardly stumbled over your words.

Was there any easy, non-weird way to tell someone you barely knew that you couldn’t stop thinking about them? That you wanted to make sure they knew they were loved and worth it and that all you wanted was…

_Might as well say it._

“I like you very much, Bucky.” You stared at him, awaiting his reaction.

It didn’t take him long.

Bucky gave you a blinding smile, his eyes bright. It was the happiest you’d ever seen him in all the weeks you’d known him.

“I like you too, Y/N. And not just for the book, or for your kindness. You’ve been on my mind a lot, and…well, I want to get to know you better.”

_Wow. Just…wow._

“Shall we?” You motioned toward the door, and as your hand was falling back down to your side, Bucky grasped it in his gently.

“You know, I wasn’t sure how to ask,” he said quietly, as the two of you made your way past Bruce (who pretended not to notice). “I’m really awkward when it comes to this stuff.”

“Me too,” you admitted. “But I think that’s pretty normal.”

And that pesky little voice in the back of your brain that always said you weren’t good enough, that he’d never like you, that you weren’t doing this right, well…

It finally _shut the hell up._


End file.
